Dear Carlos,
Whatever happened to you, anyways?
I wonder sometimes. I haven’t heard from you
these many months and friends have long
since ceased bringing up your name. Did
you move? Did you like your new job?
Are you still drinking yourself ever deeper into
oblivion and debt? Have you sobered up,
changed your clothes, sold out, started working
for the government? Are you still quitting
smoking, still picking up girls in clubs?
I know you were horrified by the mere
suggestion, but I still see you as a
fetishist at heart. Do you still go
clubbing? Raving? Are you still pining
for the girl you love, or were you able
to work things out with her? Do your
furnishings still solely consist of CD’s, a
mattress, and several hundred magazines
carpeting the floor? Do you still refuse
to cook in your apartment? Are you
going to turn fat, move back to your
mama, settle down and marry a nice girl?
Have you started dating boys, yet? Do you
ever wonder, as I do, what was going
to happen, that night we were all
together at Coven, spunbrained on brownies,
tequila and smoke? When we all suddenly
looked at each other and only the sudden
closing call kept us from massing upstairs?
Do you know, I’ve still never been up on
the balcony, there. What was all that
about anyways, what was so narrowly averted?
Except for that short span of letters,
you really were the perfect one-night-stand.